


Broken Crown

by elfentruthed



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Archivist Jonathan Sims, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical apocalypse, M/M, Tragedy, it's a sad one lads, post-160, yes it's making heavy reference to song lyrics just bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfentruthed/pseuds/elfentruthed
Summary: The Archivist will make Jonah Magnus pay for what he has done to the world, and for what he has done to everything that has ever meant anything.-A series of (very) short chapters that I wrote in a feverish fit of motivation after I listened to this song for the first time in a year. The other half will be posted soon.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 21
Kudos: 80





	1. A Prologue

_I'll never be your chosen one  
I'll be home, safely tucked away_

~~~

Martin’s presence had been apprehensive and tense when they first arrived at the safehouse.

Jon busied himself with unpacking the kitchen. There was little already in the cabinets and even less still stored away in the one box of kitchenware they had managed to bring with them. But there were things to be placed in new homes, and a meal to prepare as soon as tonight, so Jon busied himself.

He had requested – no, insisted – Martin sit and rest. He knew it made Martin uneasy, sitting unoccupied while someone else, someone he cared about, worked around him. But he also knew that Martin’s return from the Lonely had taken a lot out of him. Jon knew only too well that even a temporary severance from a Host was draining, almost deathly so. Martin’s severance was permanent. Jon was going to make sure of that.

So when he heard the gentle pattering of bare feet on the linoleum floor, underlaid by the subtle thumping of a solid weight above each step, Jon sighed.

“Martin, please,” he breathed. “Please, you really should re-“

His thought was cut off by a pair of warm, soft arms wrapping around his waist. The feeling was novel, but not uncomfortable, and certainly not unwanted. Jon gently set the mug he was holding down on the counter with a gentle _thunk_ , and melted in the embrace that now consumed him.

“I’m fine,” came Martin’s voice, pressed up against Jon’s neck, so close that Martin’s warm breath made the hairs on Jon’s neck and arms stand on end. Jon felt himself smile and exhale a breathy laugh as he leaned further back into Martin’s arms. “Let me make us some tea.”

Jon could not deny the offer, but felt a twinge of disappointment settle in his stomach as Martin pulled away, leaving his back cold and his skin prickling in desire for Martin’s warmth to return. He returned to his busywork, though. He listened intently as Martin moved about the space, opening and closing cabinets in search for supplies, filling the kettle with water and setting it upon the stove, standing silently and patiently as the water slowly came to a boil.

Jon turned his head and stole brief glances as he worked, at first to make sure that Martin wouldn’t fade to nothingness, and eventually just to admire that Martin was here, with him. With only him. As the water was coming close to temperature Martin caught his stare, and returned it with a warm smile and a sweet reddening of his cheeks.

Jon tried not to Know too much about Martin. He wanted to respect his privacy and have some semblance of normalcy in this blossoming relationship. But in that moment, Jon Knew that Martin was feeling the same gentle admiration for Jon.

Within minutes Martin was pushing a warm cup into Jon’s hand. The heat spread from his palms, up through his arms, soaring through his chest and settling in his cheeks as he gazed up into Martin’s honey-sweet eyes.

“Thank you,” Martin said, barely above a whisper. He did not break eye contact as the color in his cheeks intensified just enough for Jon to notice.

“For what?”

“For saving me,” Martin replied. He came half a step closer, so close that the knuckles of their hands holding warm cups brushed, so close that Jon could see the reflection of his own Eyes in Martin’s glasses. “For everything.”

“Of course,” Jon breathed, mildly exasperated. “Of course I did. You deserve nothing less.”

Martin smiled, the expression spreading up from his soft lips to make the corners of his eyes wrinkle in a way Jon found almost unbearably endearing. “Is that the only reason why?” he asked.

Jon returned Martin’s smile with a grin of his own. He’d been caught. “And because…” He averted his gaze for just a moment, embarrassed. But then he remembered that this moment was perfect for this. Perfect for them. “Because I love you.”

Martin’s expression softened, his smile falling from his lips but not from his eyes. “Can I be honest for a moment?”

“Always, Martin.”

“I could kiss you right now.”

There was no hesitation in Jon’s response. “Then do it,” he said, before he could give his shyness the chance to get the best of him.

And so he did. Martin leaned down, making their knuckles push just a little harder together. Jon craned up, lifting himself on his toes slightly, and met Martin’s lips with his own. There was no bumping of noses, no clacking of teeth. Just brief, gentle contact.

Jon heard a soft whine escape from his mouth when Martin pulled away. He wanted more. Just a little more.

And clearly Martin did too. He set his cup on the counter, then took the cup from Jon’s hands and placed it next to his. Jon didn’t want to protest, nor would he have had the time to; almost just as soon as the cup was out of Jon’s hands, a pair of arms were wrapped around his waist and a face crashed into his. This kiss was more forceful, more awkward, and Jon could only return Martin’s energy as he reached up and tightly wrapped his own arms around Martin’s neck.

The Lonely would not have them. The Beholding would not have them. Not for this moment at least.

For this moment, all they had was each other.


	2. An Apocalypse

_The pull on my flesh was just too strong  
It stifled the choice and the air in my lungs_

~~~

“Hello, Jon.”

The greeting spilled from his lips like vomit, unwanted and tasting of bile. Jon knew he was continuing to read, from the vague understanding that his lips were moving and he could feel the subtle vibration in his throat, but he could not hear his own voice over the static in his head and the ringing in his ears, growing in intensity as he poured all his energy into resisting the compulsion.

“I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.”

If Jon didn’t know any better, he would have almost thought the statement was responding to his intentions. Words that didn’t exist coming into existence on the page in response to his thoughts, their supernatural quality fooling his mind into believing they had always been there.

But Jon did know better. He knew too well, in fact.

“Now, shall we turn the page and try again?”

His own supernatural Understanding of made him Know what this document contained. He Knew what he was about to bring about. But the forces he strained against made his head feel like it was going to explode, feel as though his mind and very soul were to be ripped apart and cleft in twain and torn to shreds buried deep, deep, deep, deep until they met the fiery pits of hell then burned to ash-

“Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.”

Jon felt his heart drop into his stomach, and subsequently shatter. His resistance sputtered. He was powerless to stop it.

And so he felt himself fall. Fall into the trance of consumption of Knowledge, the familiarity embracing him until he was smothered, suffocated, and when he came up again for air the Archivist uttered:

“Statement begins.”


	3. An Encounter

_I will not speak of your sin  
There was a way out for him_

~~~

Hot tears streamed down the Archivist’s face. They had not stopped since he had left the safehouse. He could not quite remember how he had finally arrived at the Institute. He did not know how he could have managed to burst through the barriered doors and stormed down into the archives, how he found his way through the twisting of the tunnels and found the Panopticon with no delay. He did not know. He did not care.

What he did know was that he was here, now, on his feet and breathing hard. His arm extended, stretching, straining, reaching as far as it could go. At the end of it was a fist, and clutched within was the handle of a knife. A chef’s knife, mundane, but long and sharp. Dangerous.

And at the end of that, just a breath from the tip, was a throat. The throat of Jonah Magnus, to be exact, wearing the face of Elias Bouchard. A face that was of flat affect beyond a quizzical investigation of the man – the creature – standing before him.

The desiccated corpse of Jonah Magnus was nowhere to be seen. The Archivist was unsure if he really expected to see it. Perhaps the crown of the Watcher allowed him the power to live the remainder of his immortality in his present form. He did not know. He did not care.

“You won’t kill me,” said Jonah. The corner of his mouth twitched up, a hint of unearned confidence threatening to crack his expressionless façade.

The Archivist pushed the knife forward. A droplet of blood pooled at the tip of the blade. The inkling of confidence on Jonah’s face was quickly replaced by a settling of dread in his eyes.

“You can’t,” Jonah said. His voice was steady, but that spark of fear in his eyes had not dissipated.

“Oh,” uttered the Archivist. “Oh, I think I can. I think I’m the only one who can. And I will.”

“You won’t. You’ll die.”

“I really don’t care.”

That confident smirk teased a reappearance. Jonah’s voice lifted with a timbre of cockiness. “And Martin?” he cooed. “I doubt he could stand living without you, the lovestruck fool. In fact, his connection to the Beholding may still be strong enough that my death could threaten his life as well. Is that what you want?”

The Archivist’s fingers clenched the handle of the knife tighter, his knuckles going white and his palm bleeding with the force of his sharp fingernails digging into the rough skin.

“You don’t know?”

Jonah did not respond.

The tears on his cheeks burned scalding hot as the Archivist’s face spread with a malicious grin. “You didn’t see,” he said. It was not a question.

It was a statement.


	4. A Culmination

_I knew my weakness  
Consign me not to darkness_

~~~

Martin’s embrace was warm and comfortable.

It was amazing what people could get used to, really. Monsters tormented everyone at every hour. Both the ground and the sky opened to swallow people whole. Every single stray thought threatened to steal your mind and cause you to lose yourself in a maze of your own making. People awoke in the mornings to find that a pestilence and plague had been sent into their house, consuming them in their beds. Fires burned too hot and offered no light, consuming everything that crossed their paths. And in the sky, the ceaseless watcher drank it all in, consuming the fears as they came, granting Jon more strength, leaving him untouched.

The world was ending, allegedly, and Martin’s embrace was warm and comfortable.

Jon was nestled up against Martin’s side, fitting neatly under his arm. He had his neck craned, up and back, with his face buried in the crook of Martin’s neck. He was almost purring with contentment, he wasn’t ashamed to admit that, peppering kisses beneath Martin’s jaw as he gently stroked Jon’s hair.

Since that unfortunate statement had found its way to their safe haven, Jon and Martin had known Fear like they never had before. Jon had clung to Martin for strength, desperate to hold on to the only anchor of the last shred of humanity that held him like a fraying thread above a pit of despair and monstrosity that beckoned to him like a deep, starving hunger. Martin had shaken in fear and uncertainty of his own survival, his trembling voice screaming Jon’s name to hold him up, to keep him tied to this world, his own desperation to hold onto the only thing that protested his surrender to the End apparent. This was how they had survived – with each other. For each other.

So as the rare quiet moments came, such as this, they took them, drank them in as if they had endured a century of drought. Tightening their grips on the rocks that anchored them as the Eye of the storm passed overhead.

“Jon,” Martin whispered into Jon’s hair. He loosened his grip around Jon’s arm, and Jon pressed his face into Martin’s neck harder in protest.

“Jon,” Martin repeated, louder but just as gentle. He planted a kiss to the crown of Jon’s head and shifted his weight to pull away from their embrace. Jon allowed him, but slid his hand down Martin’s arm to loosely grip his fingers as he pulled himself to his feet. Martin pulled Jon’s hand up to his face and pressed his lips to his knuckles. “Just going to the toilet. I can come back with tea?”

The lift in his voice indicated that this was not a statement, but a question. Jon gave a single nod, smiling as he released Martin’s hand. Martin smiled in return, then leaned down to press another kiss to Jon’s forehead before turning and walking away.

Jon Knew that Martin was safe as long as he was with him, and as long as he knew where Martin was. They had known Fear, but never a true threat to their survival. The new world knew that the Archivist was too important to perish, and thus he suffered but was not harmed in any meaningful way. Not meaningful to Them, at least. And that safety net extended to those he thought to protect. So long as he kept thinking to protect them, maintaining the bond at all times. He had grown comfortable in that security.

Too comfortable.

He did not feel the growing tension of that protective bond, straining under the weight of complacency, until he felt his mind thunder with a loud **_SNAP_** as it broke.

His mind suddenly roared with the static of Unknowing and Darkness and Finality, unable to touch him, but coalescing together and filling the entirely of his surroundings.

He did not know how he had managed to scramble to his feet so quickly, and could not hear himself crying out Martin’s name as he bounded out of the room.

He was met with the sight – no, not quite – the _awareness_ of something standing in the hallway. Jon could see it, almost, but when he looked at it, it… Stuttered and faded, reappearing only as Jon’s eyes went out of focus in horror. It was tall, so tall that it had to hunch down to not hit the ceiling. It was dark, made of shadow or smoke, or both, with arms that nearly reached the ground and fingers nearly just as long that came to a point in incomprehensibly sharp talons.

Talons that were reaching forth, impaling Martin through the throat. Martin’s face was twisted in a grimace of unbearable pain and terror, his feet kicking slightly as he struggled with all his might to free himself from the monster. As he struggled, Jon could See, could _feel_ , the life draining out of the wound and into the very being of the creature.

Jon didn’t realize he was screaming until he felt his throat grow sore and his larynx strain under the force of his despair. He looked at the monster, truly _Looked_ at it, and the dim corridor illuminated with the very power of his Knowing. The aspects of the Stranger and the Dark could not hope to stand the strength of being Known by the Archivist, and so just as quickly as the monster had appeared it was gone, dissipated like a cloud of smoke subjected to a strong wind.

But the fire of life that Jon knew as well as his own was still draining from Martin. Now a slow dribble rather than a rushing current, but only because there was not much left to escape him.

The static in Jon’s head died all at once. The only sounds now in his head were the ringing of his own ears, and the desperate, wheezing, gurgling gasps for air coming from the heap of Martin on the floor. Next Jon heard the thundering of his own footsteps as he ran to him.

Suddenly he was knelt on the floor, holding the dying man he loved in his trembling arms. His scarred hand shakily stroked Martin’s face, and his mouth whispered nonsensical assurances that everything would be alright, I’m here now, it’ll be okay, you’ll live, I’ll help you, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you…

It wasn’t as if he had the power to magically heal fatal wounds on anyone other than himself, Jon knew that. And as hot tears fell from his chin onto Martin’s paling face, he Knew that Martin knew that too.

Martin could not respond to Jon’s feeble comforts. Of course he couldn’t. The wound in his throat did not bleed, but rather seeped a dark shadowy _something_ that rolled like a dense fog, forming into tendrils that crept down to his chest, up his chin and past his lips, down the sides of his neck and onto the floor. They licked at the area beneath his jaw that Jon had been nuzzled into just moments ago. Or was it a lifetime ago? Had it ever really happened?

Jon felt his heart constrict, pushing hot blood into his face at the thought that he was not the last to have that spot. He was filled with some emotion he could not place – Jealousy? Grief? Anger?

Martin must have felt it pouring out of Jon like the heat of a flame. Slowly, achingly slowly, he reached up and placed a clammy hand on Jon’s wet cheek. The idea of a sad smile draped over his face like a sheet. Although he could not speak, Jon knew what he was saying.

_Don’t lose yourself. You can make it through anything without me._

_I love you._

Jon reached up to place his hand on Martin’s. But before he could reach, Martin’s hand fell away, colliding with the floor with a quiet and unceremonious _thud_.

The dark fog still crept along, trying to reach for Jon’s hand but only managing to sizzle away like a bead of water on a hot surface when it touched.

Jon’s hand remained statue-still in the air, frozen in a moment he could never have. The tears stopped flowing. His eyes strained under the weight of the ocean that wanted to pour out, but the tears stopped flowing. The hand at the back of Martin’s head clenched at his hair. Jon was still looking down in the direction of Martin’s still face, but he was not seeing it. He wasn’t seeing anything.

A quieter, softer _snap_ of a frayed thread resonated through his whole body, and Jon felt himself fall.

The name of the unfamiliar emotion pierced him as he fell into the pit of despair and monstrosity that he had fought against for so long. It dug deep, spreading its roots and festering, growing quickly comfortable in its new home square in the center of the Archivist’s dark heart.

_Hatred._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally had to step away and take a break halfway through writing this. but i love to suffer and i'm taking you all down with me.


	5. A Resolution

_ I'll never wear your broken crown _ _   
_ _ Now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace _

~~~

The recollection played through the Archivist’s head like an old, tired record. It shouldn’t have been anything new. He was reliving every memory of every living person at all times, it felt like. And yet this memory still struck deep. It burned deep in his heart like a fire, enveloping him with smoke that hung like a thick fog, wrapping tight around his limbs and pulling him blindly through the motions of his every action up to this point. 

It was everything Jon had.

It was the only Jon left in him.

The Archivist swung back into reality with the sudden realization of a poorly-hidden, pathetic gasping noise from in front of him. In his reverie he had failed to notice that his hand had moved forward slightly, ever so slightly, digging deeper into the flesh of Jonah’s throat. A droplet of blood pooled at the tip of the knife and trickled slowly down the blade, then fell to the floor as another droplet formed. 

With every drop of blood that dribbled down the knife, a wisp of an inky blackness rose from the Archivist’s hand and crept up the blade to meet the wound. The smoke lapped at the injury greedily, pulsating briefly before dissipating once the droplet escaped. With every passing moment, every drop of blood, that darkness seemed to grow stronger. Ever so slightly stronger.

Jon felt the power within him grow as that blackness fed upon Jonah’s increasingly apparent fear. The knife clattered to the ground.

Jon turned away, his head in his hands. Weak wisps of the darkness blurred the edges of his vision, recoiling at the taste of his own horror. 

This was the hand that had reached for Martin’s. The hand denied that last moment of comfort before losing grip on his anchor. He was lost at sea at the mercy of the waves and waves of terror surrounding him. That anchor was his last comfort. 

But comfort could not be trusted. He knew that from the start.

And with that comfort gone, the placebo eliminated, he could accept the power he had within him to withstand the waves. The power to push others down into those rushing currents.

The Archivist turned his head slowly.

“You are no god,” his voice crackled, low. “You are only a man. A man that feared death to such a degree that he managed to play at god, creating a master plan to change the world that he could rule as king. Yet you underestimated your incompetence. You played with forces beyond your tiny comprehension, believing they were non-sentient forces that you could use as tools to further your own goals. Not realizing that they were the ones with a plan. They were the ones stringing you along.”

Jonah said nothing.

“And you did not realize you held no power over this ruined world,” the Archivist gestured towards the bloodied knife on the ground, “until you realized that that you feared the forces you worked so hard to bring in just as much as everyone else.”

Jonah still said nothing. 

“So the powers that be granted you your wish for immortality. But once your usefulness had run its course, your powers were stripped. You sit upon a throne with the watcher’s crown upon your head, in denial that you do not have the eyes to watch anymore. You were played to the plan of something bigger, you were used, and then promptly tossed aside, your immortality granting you nothing but the inability for the suffering to ever end.” 

Jonah’s fear rolled off of him in waves like a breeze carrying the odor of a tantalizing, distant meal. 

The Archivist shuddered. Then the Archivist grinned.

“ _ How does it feel? To be used? _ ” He turned the rest of the way back towards Jonah. 

The hatred inside burned brighter. The Hunger dug deeper.

“ _ Does it make you feel powerful? _ ”

The Archivist knew what the False Watcher saw. He did not see Jon. He was too cowardly to even see the Archivist. All he saw was a face of a thousand Eyes, all turned on him. A grin that stretched from universe to universe. And inside, where a soul once sat, a starving, bottomless pit.

The crown of eyes atop its head.

The Archivist took the False Watcher’s head in both of what once were its hands. 

_ If you want to rule, then you must understand the world you rule over. You must Know. I will make you See. _

And so the Archivist did.

It made him see the disgusting, wet meat that constitutes the humans that think so highly of themselves. The disease that consumes them, the mortality that puts them in their place. The betrayal of man against other life for his own survival, the betrayal of man against man for his own greed. The pride of humanity to expect that they can understand and trust what their feeble senses tell them must be true. The entitled anger when others disagree with their interpretation. The helplessness when there are no senses to be trusted. The smallness of a person in relation to the heavens, or in relation to the world they so desperately wish to control.

The destruction of a fellow man’s humanity for the simple pleasure of it. The unbearable loneliness felt by the one that lost it all.

The puppet master that had been pulling the strings since the very beginning.

And the ceaseless watcher, who drank it  _ all _ in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo got that good season 5 trailer stuff for callbacks and stuff, also i am suffering


	6. A Finality

_ I'll never wear your broken crown _ _   
_ _ But in this twilight, our choices seal our fate _

~~~

Jon sat on the floor, his head falling back against the wall. Some distance away was the crumpled form of what was once the man called Jonah Magnus. The False Watcher could not stand Knowing the world he wanted so desperately to rule over. How could he, when he needed a vessel to carry out the watcher’s coronation on his behalf?

The Archivist had made Jonah see. And in his final moment, Jonah had Known all. All that he could not rule. All that he could not comprehend. All that he had wrought.

Every mark Jon had suffered to bring about The Change was turned back on him, tenfold, all at once. That final moment must have been… painful.

Part of Jon wanted to be upset that he derived so much pleasure from that knowledge. But that part of him had died in his arms.

Jon stared blankly at his scarred hand. The hand that almost held Martin’s in his final moment. The hand that released the hunger that gave him the first taste of Jonah’s fear. 

The hand that oozed that darkness, more powerful than ever. 

It floated up around Jon, kissing his skin, whispering some unknown seduction. It did not recoil at the contact, as it once had. Instead it grew, it surrounded him, it embraced him with the Knowledge of the world above. 

The Archivist sat quietly, drinking in the fears of the blighted, ruined world it had brought about. The one it now ruled.

And it felt…

_ Right _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


End file.
